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BECAUSE I LOVE SPRING AND BEER IS DELICIOUS
because spring has driven her silk hands across my lap
and a light wind is curling through my whiffle ball eyes
the sun shooting down with her blessed heat, thru my dew soaked socks
up over my knee youthful tube socks - two red stripes
and the out sight moons and stars
my son my wife, friends with chilled cold cans of american beer
soda shoppe girls wrapped in yellow and white seersucker
arcadian gestures of 'you go first it's a lovely day we're sharing dear'
nothing but the sounds of pleasant pastimes
street level railroad gates ringing down - choo choo sounds chewing
on my mind, pulling up bedtime memories
memories of child me, and the distant sounds of night trains
if you listen closely you can hear the weeds between the slats of track
blowing like seaside hairs on the heads of ocean angels
as the train wisps by into the pink horizon, those hairs falling back to a quiet sleep
and the streets of my town are blooming with cheer
kids being pulled in their big red wagons, lawn mowers kicking up aromas
men scrubbing down their grills with bbq heritage
fireflies lighting our yards like distant reflections of aurora borealis
the pluck hop sounds of tennis balls, bouncing over gates
rubber squeak sneakers scars, on a b-ball court, scatting with legs
and that chilled cold beer under piles of ice
if you listen closely you can hear it
in every direction of america, the fizzy pop crack
the peeling back of aluminum tabs
like keys to the sun, we push em down - the collective joy
as we neck back for that gorgeous guzzle that hops and cools
barely aware of those trucks
those trucks hauling bales of barely and hops,
those great big american trucks
doing their business to keep food on the table
making it all possible for me
making it all possible for the peoples of america….
and out there, sitting on a silver branch
a glimpse of summer and her impatient bells
bells which may toll ahead of season…fool's bells
and they are bells not quite as pretty...
bells nowhere as lovely as spring bells,
as they crash through march's wet angry mouth.
© 2008 Andy Boerum
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